Galisi Institute Pt. 1

1

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” George asked his grandkids as he scrunched over a puzzle. They sat next to him in their dusty home library, choosing to scribble without ceasing in tattered journals rather than help sort the pieces their grandfather was bunching into color-coated piles.

The question stopped them mid-letter. Squinting, they looked at the stacks of books with author after author listed on the spines, then to each other, and broke knowing smiles as the answer came simultaneously to their minds. “To be writers. But famous writers. So famous we’re household names.”

George stared at the puzzle, but he wasn’t looking for matching pieces. “Is that really what you want?”

“Of course!”  

He shut their notebooks. Before they could protest, he said, “Then I have a story to tell you.”

Grandpa’s stories were always the best, so they readily exchanged their notebooks for throw pillows. As they nestled into the couches, Grandpa lit a candle that had become more akin to a rogue volcano of wax and dimmed the lights until their strength was no greater than the nearly-set sun outside. 

“Are you ready?” He asked. The flicker of the flame brought life to the shadows around the room. A few danced across George’s cheeks as he began. “Good. Then let me tell you about a former employee of mine. Jarrod. Jarrod and –” George cleared his throat. “Galisi Institute.”

2

“You asked to see me, Mr. Schultz?”

“Jarrod, for the last time, it’s George. Take a seat.”

“Sorry Mr. Schu – George.” An uncomfortable silence filled the space between Jarrod and George, as if both thought the other had called the meeting. “If this is about Allyson Richards again, I –”

“Oh please, Jarrod. I said what I said. Everyone else has said what they’ve said. I’ve moved on. It’s time you did the same.”

A cold wave of relief pushed away the knot of tension building in Jarrod’s forehead, but it returned just as soon as it had gone. “Well I appreciate you saying that, Sir. And I know I should. It’s just –”

“What do you know about Galisi Institute, Jarrod?”

“Galisi Institute, Sir?”

George pushed an exasperated snicker out of his diaphragm. “Call me ‘Sir’ one more time, and I swear I’ll –”

“Sorry S–George. Sorry, George.”

George looked Jarrod over a few seconds beyond what was comfortable before continuing. “Alright, kid. Now back to Galisi Institute. Have you heard of it? The new construction up in the mountains no one seems to know much about.”

“Jeff mentioned something about it the other day. Some sort of mental health clinic, right?”

“From what I hear, an experimental clinic. Works with people who have recently gone through significant criticism or something like that. We’ve been trying to do a story on it ever since it opened 8 months ago, but they haven’t returned a single one of our calls. Now I ask you, what kind of mental health clinic turns down a free opportunity for the community to know about all the good they’re doing?”

Jarrod nodded. “One with something to hide.”

George pointed a single finger gun at Jarrod and clicked his tongue, “Bingo.”

“So you want me to see if I can charm my way in?”

“I want you to lie your way in. You’re going undercover. The only good thing that’s come out of this whole Allyson Richards mess is at least now this Gal-whatever place should buy your story as a possible client.”

“I understand,” Jarrod cleared his throat. “But, what if I can’t keep the act up.”

“Then find that same fire you had in you before this whole mess and do whatever it takes to stay in that place.” George launched a crumpled old newspaper just short of his waste-basket then paused and squinted at his desk. “But, Jarrod, from what I’ve seen recently, you may not need to fake it. Who knows, maybe going to this place could even do you some good.”

Jarrod looked at his knees and rolled his thumbs back and forth over each other. Having already exhausted his daily store of empathy, George stood, snatched his coat off the door, and asked, “So what do you say, are you in?” 

Jarrod twisted in his chair. “I’m in.”

“Good.” George adjusted his jacket and took off down the hallway. He had to shout over his shoulder for Jarrod to hear. “Get yourself in there.”

3

That time had arrived in the mountains where the leaves were beginning to fall, leaving the trees and the rock mounds they sat upon looking like haggard old men who didn’t care enough to hide that they were losing their hair. A highway snaked through them, and off that highway a dirt road weaved its way up to a valley wedged between two peaks. In that valley sat a small castle-like building with round towers just over two stories tall. A chic glass facade reminiscent of a modern California home disrupted the medieval milieu created by the towers to introduce an indoor-outdoor ambience. The strange amalgamation of styles would have inspired complaints if it were not so hidden, far away from even the rougher hiking trails. But it didn’t look too bad. At least, not to Jarrod’s architecturally undigested eyes. He parked his car in the empty dirt lot and carried his suitcase and satchel stuffed with camera equipment and socks towards the drawbridge style gate where a woman in black pants and frill white blouse was waving to him.

“Mr. Harris?” She asked.

“Hello,” he waved, hustling as if she was holding the door for him and he was just far enough away to make it awkward.

“I’m Tina. We’re very excited to have you here, Mr. Harris. Our facilities are top-of-the-line as far as residential programs go, and our staff and treatment are unlike any other.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m excited to begin.” 

“Excellent. I will show you your room and give you a few minutes to get settled.         Then we can begin the tour.” 

For some reason, likely built upon misconceptions and stereotypes about residential treatment from a man who had never even known a therapist, much less had a session, he expected the room to be much more sterile. Perhaps a calming eggshell color with soft edges and maybe even padded walls. Instead, he got a small suite with faux-stone walls to fit with the theme of the castle, but they opened into an all-glass exterior wall that gave him an unencumbered view of the valley outside. Everywhere he looked, mountains stared down at him.

One word came to his mind as Tina showed him the rest of the castle. Eclectic. But he wasn’t there to write about the architecture. He needed details. Details he began to reel out of Tina after the standard, rapport-building chit chat. “So tell me more about yourselves. Obviously, I know what little I could find online, but how would you describe Galisi Institute?”

Tina smiled. “I don’t want to give too many spoilers. That’s what you’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

Jarrod chuckled, but he scratched his temple when she looked away. He always felt a little paranoid on assignments, worried that the interviewee knew his true intentions behind every question. He figured Tina’s joke was nothing more than that, a joke, but it caused that sixth sense in him to tingle nonetheless. He resorted to his default strategy in those moments of uncertainty and reverted to ‘safe’ topics. “So where’s dinner?”

“The cafeteria is right this way.” She led him into a windowless room even smaller than his suite with a small round table, a single chair, and a carpeted floor. It would have looked like a waiting room had it not been for the truncated version of a cafeteria buffet line. 

Jarrod paused as soon as he stepped into the cafeteria, as if processing it all for the first time, then asked, “Am I the only one here?”

Tina squinted as if she misheard him. She shook her head. “No no, of course not.” She took a look around, searching for what inspired the question and chuckled as she found it. “I suppose ‘cafeteria’ sounds misleading. Many of our clients struggle with crowds, Mr. Harris. We find it best to conduct treatment in isolation. You may see other patients on occasion in the halls, but for the most part, you have the place to yourself.” 

Jarrod nodded. By the end of his tour, he concluded the building consisted of a basement that held most of the “state-of-the-art” treatment equipment Tina promised, and a ground floor with various wings for patients, staff, and offices. He had his heart set to explore it more after the 9 PM curfew rolled around, but the full day of work coupled with the long drive to the mountains compelled him towards bed rather than exploring. 

4

“So. Jarrod, right? Tell me about yourself.” Marlena was a tall woman. At least, she looked so in her chair. She sat like a therapist. Pen in one hand, notebook in the other, rested against her legs that were crossed so tightly it was a wonder any blood found its way below her knees. 

“Well,” Jarrod shifted on the couch, trying to find the most comfortable position among the throw pillows. By the end of his bout of fidgeting, he had chosen to hug one while resting his side upon the arm of the couch. “What would you like to know?” 

Marlena tapped a thin file on her desk that Jarrod suspected bore his name. “I suppose we could start with all the boring stuff. How many siblings you have, what your parents did, and the other basic info that I already have from your application. But what I’m more interested to know is, who is Jarrod Harris?” 

“That’s a good question,” he stroked his chin and looked out the window then returned her gaze. “I suppose I’d say I’m a journalist.”

Marlena waited for something more to follow, but his unfaltering eye contact told her his thought had concluded. “And? What else, Jarrod?”

He returned to chin-stroking. “Well, I’m also a son. A friend. 32 years old. Um…5’9. 164 lbs.”

“Yes, yes. All stuff I can tell from your file –”

“You have my weight in your file?”

“Okay, not your weight. But that’s not the stuff I’m asking about. Is it? What else are you Jarrod? Think deep. Tell me something I couldn’t tell just from looking at you or reading your resume.”

He shook his head and scoffed. “I’m a journalist, a writer.” Marlena looked at him and circled her fingers as if reeling in an invisible fish hook connected to his thoughts. “And…um…” he felt like a student who had only loosely done their reading being called on by the teacher. He scanned his mind for the answers on the pages and finally found them. “A good guy. There you go. I’m a good guy.”

Marlena made her first scribbles on the yellow notepad. Jarrod waited a second, but the notes kept pouring out. It gave him time to remember that he was not there solely for therapy. “And how about you, Dr. Piascik. Who would you say you are?”

Marlena put her pen down and smiled. “Please, call me Marlena. And thank you for asking. I’d say I’m also a good person. Someone who cares about the world. Who cares about others. I care about helping people to be who they truly are.  And I’d like to think I’m also fun and creative.” She chuckled. “And maybe a little bit crazy sometimes.” 

“I see you’ve answered that question a few more times than I have,” Jarrod said. “And did you go to school for therapy? Are you licensed?”

“Of course. I did many years of school. I have my PsyD as well as five years of experience doing this sort of counseling, and another two years doing clinical research.”

“And how long have you been with Galisi Institute?”

“About 9 months, since just before we opened. Now do you have any other questions? I’m happy to answer anything you can think of, but I hope these questions aren’t to avoid talking about you.”

“No, no” he waved his hand as if brushing the question tangibly away from his chest. 

“Good. Then let’s continue.”

5

Jarrod returned to his room unexpectedly drained. Although the day had only consisted of light exercise and the “get to know each other” session with Marlena, it had felt more like a skilled dance he had to learn the steps to in real time. Her trying to penetrate his psyche. Him giving just enough information to keep her guard down without letting it turn into a “real” therapy session and becoming unproductive. He knew Marlena was his best bet to unearth anything fishy going on at the institute. And after a day learning little new information, he began to feel the pressure twisting into knots along his shoulders. So, it was no wonder he fell asleep only moments after crashing on his bed. 

When three firm knocks on the door finally roused him, the mountains had disappeared into the blackness of the night. “Room service!” He recognized the exaggerated declaration coming from the hallway as Tina. He opened the door to find her with a dish-cluttered tray bearing pounds of food and three colorful drinks. 

“Is everything alright, Jarrod? You missed dinner.”

“Yeah,” he rubbed his eyes. “I guess I just fell asleep after my session. How long has it been?”

“Well it’s eight now, so if your session lasted the scheduled two hours, it’s been…what? 5 hours?”

“5 hours,” his eyes went wide. “I took a five hour nap?”

“I guess so,” Tina laughed. “But don’t be too surprised. Many of our clients have similar experiences. It just means your session was productive. Therapy is hard work after all.” Jarrod nodded and looked at the platter. “We wouldn’t want you to miss dinner, though. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I took the liberty of getting you a little bit of everything.”

Jarrod had to be careful to balance the tray without spilling as he transitioned it to a small table in the corner of his room. “Just leave whatever you don’t want and I’ll come back in a little bit to pick it up.”

The plates bore burgers and fries, fettuccine alfredo and broccoli, chicken lo mein, and a mix of beans and rice.  The food was good, far above the quality Jarrod had come to expect from such world buffet attempts. He was tempted to finish it all, but the newfound pressure on the button of his pants told him it was time to stop. The only thing he did not attempt to finish were the drinks. He normally was not a water guy, but he would take water over any of those concoctions any day. 

Tina took her time returning. As he waited for her, Jarrod paced the room to help the food settle. It didn’t. Whether the food or the nap, he was full of energy. He felt like a dog in its crate in the morning, waiting for its owner to come and free it so it could sprint around the yard. He had rested and settled in enough. That night, it was time to get work. The second Tina returned and the coast was clear, his sneaking would begin. 

When she finally came back at 9:30 PM, Jarrod already had the platter fully packed up. He handed it to her the second the door opened. “Wow, you must have had quite the appetite,” she mentioned as her eyes scanned the plate with a smile indicative of the pride she had for her employer’s excellent cooks. But when her oscillating pupils arrived at the red, blue, and green drinks, the smile vanished. “Oh,” she sounded as if Jarrod had just informed her their relationship was not working out. “I see you don’t like the drinks.”

Jarrod tried to reassure her. “No, no. They’re not bad I’d say. Just…wasn’t in the mood.” He smiled and started to close the door, but Tina interrupted. 

“I understand. It’s just, well, you really should drink them. They’re good for you!”

“I appreciate it, Tina. But, honestly, I’m just not really thirsty.”

“Oh boy,” her sigh halted his 2nd attempt at shutting the door. “I was really hoping not to have to resort to this, but those drinks are a ‘doctor’s orders’ kind of thing here. We call them Vitaluids.”

“Vitaluids? Like vitamins?”

“The thought was ‘vital-fluids,’ but we’re still working on the name. And the flavor. But trust me, they work wonders! They provide important nutrients for you to get the most out of your time here. I’m so sorry, but –” 

“Tina, it’s alright.” He took the red one off the platter and chugged it, shivering after as he swallowed. “All of them?” He asked, returning the first cup to the platter. Tina nodded. He repeated the process until each glass held no more than a few drops. Having found her original smile, Tina closed the door herself and trotted down the hall. 

Jarrod listened as intently as a child to a seashell. When five minutes of pure silence had passed, he finally deemed it safe to explore. Camera-filled satchel in hand, he creaked the door open and peeked into the hallway just enough to confirm what his ears had already told him. The coast was clear, but curfew would pass any minute now.  He thought a curfew for adults was strange, but Tina had not mentioned any consequences for breaking it. Still, he had no intent of getting caught while he did his snooping. 

His heart rate climbed as he snuck through the halls. But why? He never used to feel so nervous on assignments. He shrugged the thought away and kept his hand just over the satchel flap, his fingers twitching like a cowboy’s just before the fateful shot in a duel. 

Jarrod looked for cameras first as he meandered through the halls. After that, he was open to whatever fate might present him. He found no cameras, and as he continued wandering, it seemed that would stay the case. He retraced all the same paths he had walked during Tina’s earlier tour, but the ground floor had no suspicious hallways or hidden spaces to reveal. Neither did it have any life. The place was empty. Silent. Seemingly abandoned. Everyone must have taken curfew seriously. 

As he descended into the basement, however, a different story began to write itself. He had tip-toed two hallways deep when the faint tap of footsteps appeared. Before he had time to hide, a blur of a white lab coat flashed around the corner, then immediately back out of sight. He froze, his body reverting to panic mode and hoping whoever it was had not seen him. The sound of footsteps sprinting away across the carpeted floors, however, told him his hope was in vain. 

He hissed under his breath at himself then jogged up and down the hall, checking each door handle and praying for a place to hide. When none of them budged more than a centimeter, he slumped against the wall and counted the seconds until someone came to scold him all the way back to his room, or worse, expel him from the institute. He could already feel his boss’ verbal blows ricocheting across his mind as the weight his disappointment hung heavily over his shoulders. But a minute passed, and another, and soon it became clear that no one was coming at all. The burden of failure was replaced with confusion infused curiosity. Jarrod peaked around the corner half expecting to find a platoon of disgruntled doctors waiting for him, but all he found was another carpeted hallway. 

“Hello?” he whispered. No one answered, so he followed the hallway, following the direction he was certain the footsteps had gone. Unlike the other hallways that had a door every so often, this hall was a single, long path. He followed it to the end, turned the corner, and found a new hall, but one entirely unlike the rest. It had no doors, the floor lacked a carpet, and any effort to fit the building’s bizarre design scheme had been thrown out and replaced with tile floors and cement walls.

The hall led straight to a single metal door. In front of that door was the first security camera he had seen all night. But it was not pointing down the hallway, it focused only on the door. 

But why was it just pointing at the door? And why did this door warrant the only camera he had seen in the place? Jarrod stayed behind the vision field of the camera as if it were a line drawn in the sand. He whipped his camera out, turned off the flash, and snapped away, capturing every last inch of the space. He got on his hands and knees to see if anything was visible in the tiny space under the frame, but not even a photon escaped. 

He continued to ponder the door, but a sudden fear gripped him that, as there was nowhere else to go, the lab coat he saw must be behind the door somewhere. And if they were behind it, there might be others back there. And if they were back there, they might come out and stumble upon him in quite a suspicious position with camera in hand at any second. He snapped a final shot, making sure he had the camera and door all in one frame, and returned to his room.

  Jarrod lay awake awhile, his mind abuzz as he pondered the meaning of this first loose string he had found in the institute’s mysterious, indecipherable tapestry. Tomorrow he would begin the work of tugging at that string, unraveling the tapestry until all that was left was a pile of loose thread. But to do so, he needed his rest. He slept well that night, but not like a baby. More like a cocooned caterpillar. When the sun finally rose, he woke up in a sweat. 

6

“Why are you here, Jarrod?” 

He had to swallow before answering. “Um…I mean, because I was following you I guess?” He sat on a bench opposite her as they overlooked the valley. They had stopped just short of the summit of one of the surrounding mountains in a scenic overlook with benches installed for sessions. From the height they were at, the castle looked no bigger than a quarter. Jarrod thought the view was beautiful, as if during their trek they had stumbled through a portal to a futuristic Scotland. 

“I suppose I should have phrased my question better. I mean why are you here?” Marlena opened her arms as if to reveal a tangible ‘everything’ to him. “With me. The institute. Here.”

“Well,” Jarrod cleared his throat. “I guess I’m here to get help.”

“You guess?” Marlena raised an eyebrow. 

“I mean, I am. Sorry. It’s just a strange question.”

“I suppose it can be, depending who it’s asked of.” Jarrod did not answer.  “But the root of my question boils down to this. Why are you here to get help?”

He rubbed his knees. “I guess – no. Not, ‘I guess.’ I am here to get help because of some…uh, some professional turmoil recently. But you know that, right? It’s in my file? I had to put it on my application.”

“I do, but I wanted to hear it for myself.” She stuffed his file into her backpack so that her notepad and a pen were the only thing in her hands. “Let’s pretend I don’t even have a file on you. I’m getting to know you completely from scratch. There was no application. I’m not a therapist. I’m just a friend you’re telling about life. So tell me, what is this ‘professional turmoil’ that’s been going on?”

He breathed deep and rubbed his neck as he answered. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard –”

“Explain to me like I’ve been living under a rock.”

“Then…I’m a journalist at Westham. I was a good one. I had the most leading stories of anyone my age in Westham history.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Jarrod nodded as if validating her admiration. “But it all went to hell last year. I don’t know if I just thought I was invincible, or if I was getting too greedy. I guess…well, I wanted people to know who I was. To make a name for myself.”

“You didn’t already have one? Sounds like you had already accomplished quite a lot.”

“I did, and I had. But, you know. I knew I could be more.”

“So what happened?”

“There’s this businesswoman. Allyson Richards. I’m sure you’ve heard of her?” Marlena shrugged her shoulders. “Right. Pretend you haven’t. Well she’s really well liked. Not just here, but all over the country people seem to love her. So when she chose little old Brisbury to build her new factory, everyone kept talking about how great she was, how many jobs she was bringing to the area, and how she was saving the town.”

“But you didn’t think so?”

“To  me, it seemed that if someone’s choosing a town that small and remote to build in, they’re either hiding something, or they’re exploiting the locals for cheap labor. Or maybe both.”

“We built in a small and remote town. Do you think that’s what we’re doing, Jarrod?”

“Well,” Jarrod cleared his throat again. “Of course not, but I guess it’s different.”

The first grin of the day broke through Marlena’s expression. “I’m just joking, Jarrod. Go on.”

“Well, I did some digging. The cheap labor exploitation seemed like a valid concern, but everyone in the town was so happy about the jobs that they didn’t seem to care.  But I could just feel the story there. It had my name on it, and I knew it would be big for me when I found it. So, I kept looking. One day, I had this bright idea,” he slapped his forehead with the heel of his palm as he said ‘bright idea,’ “To ask the doctor for most Brisbury residents if he had seen an uptick in any illness since the factory came in.”

“I’m assuming he did?”

“Yeah. He told me that, ‘come to think of it,’ he had seen more people coming in with serious coughs and lung issues.”

“Sounds like a story to me.”

“That’s what I thought. He said he knew a woman who could come down and test the soil, the water, everything. So I brought her down, and low and behold, the results were off the charts. The whole town had been poisoned. I guess I was worried about what could happen if I let that factory keep running any longer, so I didn’t check my sources as much as I always had before. I rushed the story through, and it caught on like wildfire. It got picked up everywhere. I was doing interviews left and right, operations at the factory were paused until a deeper investigation could be done, and of course people weren’t so keen on Allyson Richards anymore.”

“So? Sounds like you did a good thing.”

“Really? I know you’re pretending, but do you really have to do that? I did not do a good thing. After everyone’s independent investigations finished, it turns out the air, the water, everything was crystal clear. It turned out the woman I hired for the testing was a disgraced geology professor who had been fired for who knows what years before. And the doctor had failed to mention that the increase in coughs and lung issues coincided with flu season. Suffice it to say, they both pointed the finger back on me. Which I guess was fair. It was my story, after all. But next thing you know, I’m getting accused of everything from falsifying documents, to violating HIPPA laws, to international conspiracy.”

“Sounds awful. What happened after that?”

“Just a lot of hate. Everywhere I looked people were dragging my name through the mud. Saying I need to be fired. I should be in jail. A fair amount of death threats. Stuff you can’t even imagine. I tried explaining what happened, but no one cared. No one outside of my circle, at least. Westham was nice enough to keep me on. Though I’m not sure I really belong there anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I mean, nobody really mentions what happened anymore, but I know they think about it. I know they think I hurt the paper’s reputation, and keeping me on hurts it even more. They don’t say it, but maybe they should. And I know it’s true.” Jarrod had become rather slumped over on his bench. He was looking at the ground, not the valley. “Sometimes I wonder if it would just be better if I just…I don’t know.”

“Disappeared?”

Jarrod shrugged. “I guess. Or something like that.”

“Maybe you should?”

Jarrod sat up in his chair. “Excuse me?”

Marlena shrugged. She hadn’t taken a single note. “I’m just saying it sounds like you did some damage, so maybe it would be better if you did just disappear…or something like that.”

Jarrod looked at her as if suddenly realizing he had been talking to an alien the entire time, both shocked but curious. “Oh I see. Reverse psychology, right? Is this supposed to be one of those techniques that makes you all keep saying your treatment is ‘state-of-the-art?’ I was wondering when that would come. Hiking mountains and talking about my feelings doesn’t really seem ‘cutting edge.’ No offense.”

“None taken. None taken whatsoever. I agree the hiking is more of an old school method. The fresh air up here has a way of opening people up. But trust me, the Institute has plenty of state-of-the-art methods. I’m sure we’ll use some later on.” 

“Mhm.” Jarrod slunk back into the bench and waited for Marlena’s next question. It didn’t come. She had turned away from Jarrod entirely and seemed perfectly blissful staring out over the valley. 

Jarrod tried to find a piece of that bliss. He imagined a bird flying over the valley. How sweet it would be to leap off that cliff and fly. Fly over the valley truly free. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew he had to stay on the ground. He just wanted help to do so. “So…what do you think?” He asked Marlena once she seemed to have drifted from their conversation and into an entirely different realm. 

She stayed in her realm a bit longer. A beautiful breeze, neither warm nor chilly rolled over the hills. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she finally said. “Nature. It’s just so pure. Undefiled. Beautiful. It couldn’t do wrong even if it wanted to. It just…is.” She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “We don’t deserve it.” 

“Mhm,” Jarrod mumbled again. He agreed with her, but the thought did not  give him the same feeling of bliss. Actually, he felt quite sick, like the one wormhole in an otherwise perfect apple. “Can we go?”

“Sure, Jarrod.” They ended their session early that day. 

7

Jarrod ate in his personal cafeteria that night. It felt…strange. Back home, he always had a friend to get dinner with, or a TV. In that awkward, isolated room, however, the only distraction was the sound of his own chewing. It was not much, but at least it was better than his thoughts. Drinking those three mandatory vita-whatever drinks worked even better, like pinching himself after stubbing his toe. 

But investigating the halls was the best distraction. Or at least, he thought it would be. They seemed darker that night as he began his post-curfew prowling, and even quieter than before. Or was his mind just louder? He went to the metal door and took more pictures. It was the same as before. Full of mystery, void of answers, answers he knew he would not find by taking more pictures. It was time to look elsewhere. 

He went to the main foyer, a wide open space bigger than any other in the building. That was a mistake. There was just something about the emptiness of the room and that silence, that awful silence. His heart started to pound. Blood rumbled past his ears. Or was it blood?

He made his way to the sweeping front doors. They were so locked that they pushed him back when he tried to open them. Of course, no one was at the reception desk either. He picked up the phone and mashed a few buttons. Nothing. Not even a dial tone. He tried the Westham office number. Silence. His mom. Silence. The room began closing in on him. His breaths started to shorten, getting faster and faster until it seemed they might stop all together. 

“Hello?” He hollered. “Tina?” He begged for her to answer, even if it was well past curfew, but the building mirrored the phones. His fingers pounded the buttons so hard it would have broken any lesser machine. 9-1-1. Nothing. 

If this scene were a movie, the camera would zoom out to show Jarrod alone in the open space, his chest heaving as trombones thundered in the background, or maybe just the haunting echo of a cymbal. His brain barreled down one track like a train with no brakes and an end destination of panic. And then he saw her. She glided noiselessly into the foyer like a ghost. Not Marlena. Not Tina. Not another doctor. She was perhaps the last person he could have expected to see. 

He just stared at her and asked, “Allyson?”